


The Prince's Protector

by whiskygalore



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU, Bottom Jensen, Genital Torture, Hurt Jensen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Protective Jeff, Sub Jensen, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskygalore/pseuds/whiskygalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society populated predominately by doms and switches, Prince Jensen's parents, determined to find their son - a rare and beautiful sub - a worthy marriage partner, throw a grand Valentine's ball inviting royal and noble suitors from far and wide. Prince Jensen, however, has already set his heart on a husband much closer to home. Now all he needs to do is persuade his parents, the court and his future husband that he has made the right decision... and avoid the unwanted attention of the not-so virtuous doms with their sights set on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a wonderful prompt on letskinkjensen requesting Prince Jensen/Knight Jeff, which lodged in my head and stubbornly refused to budge: After prince Jensen turns eighteen the King arranges a Valentine's day ball to find a suitable mate for his son not knowing that Jensen has already found his mate...the knight who has protected him since he was sixteen..
> 
> This was meant to be a brief porny one-off and then... well, plot happened. This will be NC:17 eventually.

The heavy burden of Jensen's golden crown weighed down on him. Not in some deeply metaphorical way, it was just plain old, neck achingly, heavy. For at least the hundredth time that day, Jensen silently cursed his father, the very majestic King Ackles of the great country of Richardson. It was entirely his fault that Jensen was here at this monstrosity of a Valentine's party, dressed in the finest clothes he possessed and wearing an excessively jewel encrusted crown that was as ancient and cumbersome as it was gaudy.  
  
"Jensen, why are you hiding here in the corner and pouting like a fractious three year old?"  
  
Jensen started at the voice of his mother sounding from beside his left shoulder. He'd thought he was hidden deeply enough among the shadows to avoid detection for at least a few minutes. Apparently his mother possessed hitherto unknown qualities as a silent and stealthy stalker. Or possibly, she’d just had years of practice honing her Jensen-tracking skills.  
  
Biting back the sharp retort he might have uttered in private, he dipped down in a shallow bow, not an easy thing to do with an ill-fitting crown perched atop his head, and greeted his mother formally. "Your Royal Highness, not hiding, simply catching my breath amidst the festivities."  
  
The Queen shook her head, clear green eyes, so similar to Jensen's own, shining with mirth. "Ah yes, it must be hard work indeed avoiding talking to every person in the grand hall. I'm sure you must be worn out."  
  
Jensen tried not to scowl like the three year old his mother had just accused him of resembling, but failed miserably. "My presence here tonight may not have been debatable, but that doesn't mean I have to parade myself around the room like a heifer at the cattle market."  
  
Jensen's mother gently cupped his cheek; unusually, the soft silk of her white gloves against his skin did little to assuage Jensen's bad temper. "Jensen, please don't carry on so. You know your father only wants you to be happy."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mother, but as far as I can see, my happiness is the least of his concerns. It feels far more like the king simply wants to unburden himself of his disappointment of a son. Marry me off to the highest bidder regardless of my wishes."  
  
The queen gripped Jensen's chin firmly, turning his head so he couldn't avoid her gaze. "You know that is ridiculous. You are neither a disappointment nor a burden, and the whole point of this evening's lavish affair is so that you can find yourself a women or man who might be worthy of your hand in marriage. The suggestion that you would ever be forcefully paired off with anyone whom you had no interest in is ridiculous and rather hurtful, Jensen."  
  
"I am sorry, Mother," Jensen replied, knowing he had doubtless gone too far. Deep down he did know that his parents only wished to see him settled and happy; that didn't mean, however, that he approved of their methods or reasoning. He took his mother's hand and kissed the back of her fingers in a display of love and apology and also, truth be told, to remove it from his face so he didn't have to keep looking at the saddened expression in her eyes. "I appreciate that you and the king want me to find a suitable partner but, with all due respect, I am only just turned eighteen; Jacob and Elisabeth were not rushed into marriage as soon as they came of age. In fact, it was only five months ago that Elisabeth took Magnus as her husband and she is three full years older than I am."  
  
"Yes, darling," Jensen's mother said, picking an imaginary thread from the voluminous skirt of her silver sparkling ball gown and avoiding Jensen’s gaze for the first time. With a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, Jensen realized exactly what her reply was going to be. "But,” she continued. “Your sister and brother don't share your orientation."  
  
"So because I was born a sub and not a dom or a switch like my siblings and cousins I am deemed somehow a liability to the family if I remain unwed?”  
  
Impatience was bleeding into his mother's tone. "Not a liability Jensen, not at all. I wish you'd refrain from placing such words in my mouth. Your father simply feels that you would be safer, more protected, within the shelter of marriage."  
  
"Mother, I am a sub, not a child. I am still the same person I was before I declared myself to you and father. I have not suddenly lost all my intelligence or my ability to cut a man down with my sword before he can blink."  
  
"Nor have you lost your stubbornness. Jensen, my darling son, you know how much we love you; we won't force you into a marriage that you are unhappy with, but being a sub... it makes you a target."  
  
Jensen opened his mouth to argue, frustrated that his mother refused to budge from her viewpoint. The queen however quelled his protest with a single stern look that Jensen knew from experience indicated her patience was strained to the limit. "This is not our opinion, Jensen. It is fact. As you very well know, the number of subs in our kingdom is dwindling and those who declare themselves as such are highly coveted. Doms and switches can find much happiness among each other, but unscrupulous doms would kill, have killed, to try and secure themselves a pretty sub. You are the youngest son of the king, stunningly beautiful and untouched; how many doms do you think would love to have you within their clutches? Our advisors have already heard worrying whispers of a generous bounty on offer for anyone able to snatch you from the safety of the palace."  
  
Jensen shook his head at the absurdity of the idea. “That’s ridiculous, mother. What use would I be to them? Submission is a gift, not something that can be forced. I would never kneel at the feet of anyone vile enough to-"  
  
"Don't be so naive," the queen snapped. "If the king or I were threatened, if your sister's life was threatened, if a child was held before you with a knife to her throat or a baby dangled above a pack of wild dogs you... you would do anything. I know you, Jensen; torture or threats to your own life would never break you but you would sacrifice yourself in a heartbeat to save any other soul."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No, Jensen, no more. Your father and I are determined in this. You _will_ find a suitable partner; you _will_ wed as soon as possible before any harm should befall you and you _will_ be happy." There was a finality in the queen's tone that Jensen knew signaled the end of any hope he'd harbored that his mother might be the one to persuade the king from his quest to find Jensen a match.  
  
Truth be told, Jensen wasn't entirely repulsed by the idea of marriage. He was eighteen years old, healthy, horny and sworn to remain virginal until his marriage night. Yes, there were certain elements of his parent's plan that he was far from unhappy with. The problem was there was not one guest invited to the Royal Ball that Jensen had any intention of tying himself to. Among the Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses and even the exotic Princes from distant lands; all those people that Jensen's parents deemed a suitable match, there was not a soul that Jensen deemed worthy of his submission. Explaining this to his parents was however an impossible task.  
  
The queen curled her hand around Jensen's arm and led him from the safety of his dimly lit corner into the blazing glare of the crystal chandelier in the center of the grand hall. Immediately a buzz circulated around the room, audible even over the renewed vigor of the violinists playing in the string quartet. Adopting a well-practiced polite, but patently fake smile, Jensen braced himself to face another wave of suitors.  
  
Not all of the guests seeking to secure his hand in marriage were insufferable. Lady Danneel from the County of Harris had a warm smile, laughing eyes and hair as red as the long stemmed roses and swathes of silk ribbons decorating the ballroom. Jensen shared first a light conversation and then a slow waltz with her. When he bowed to her at the end of the final airy note, he was greatly relieved that she understood and accepted his explanation that, although she was the most beautiful domme in the palace, she was not who Jensen's body yearned for.  
  
Lord and Lady Collins of the distant Isle of Skye were a revelation. The Dom and Domme were three years happily married but searching for a submissive to complete their union. The triumvirate marriage was an ancient tradition in their small community, but not something Jensen had heard tell of before. He listened, in fascination, as they wove wondrous tales of their remote island and idyllic way of life.  
  
They were a stunning couple, with their wild dark hair and sharp blue eyes that sparkled with as much love as intelligence. Jensen found himself drawn to them as though by unseen magics and if his heart and soul had not already been claimed by another, he would surely have given his father conniptions by accepting their unconventional proposal. As it was, the king's blood pressure was safe from that particular shock and Lord and Lady Collins, although disappointed, were hardly heart-broken. They wished him all the best and extended him and his future partner an open invitation to visit their castle to experience the delights of some of the Isle's other customs. Jensen's pants tightened somewhat at the wicked flare in Lord Collin's eyes as he whispered under his breath to Jensen that sharing the delights of a willing submissive was a particularly honored tradition in their land. The couple danced away together, to the beat of their own tune rather than the rhythm of the king's musicians, leaving Jensen with his face flushed pink and sudden images playing in his head that a pure, untouched prince should surely not find so appealing.  
  
Not every suitor was charming. Duke Pileggi stared unabashedly at Jensen's body, scrutinizing him as though he were a colt on the auction block. He talked to him unbearably slowly using simple vocabulary as if addressing an uneducated child. Jensen barely managed to survive their brief exchange without unsheathing the sharpened steel blade from inside his leather boot and impressing upon the Duke how incredibly unsubmissive he could be.  
  
Pileggi was an arrogant boor of a man but easily dismissed and instantly forgettable. Archduke Heyerdahl, was another kind of creature altogether. His looming presence made the fine hair at the back of Jensen's neck stand rigid in fear and caused beads of sweat to crawl down his spine. The tall, skeletal man was undoubtedly a serpent in disguise. One covetous look in his direction from Heyerdahl's slate grey eyes had Jensen's instincts screaming violently at him to forget propriety and just run. That, unfortunately, was impossible. The archduke picked the perfect opportunity to approach Jensen; most of the party goers were caught up in the whirlwind of a frenetic set dance in which the king and queen were participating and, with the aid of two of his accompanying envoy's and their intimidating bulk, he managed to steer Jensen backwards into a low lit alcove at the side of the great hall far from the merry dancers.  
  
"Prince Jensen," the Archduke said, standing close enough that Jensen could taste the warmth of his sour breath against his face. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you. You are indeed as pretty as the rumors invading my land suggested. A rare and fragile treasure, indeed. Your delicate white neck will look stunning encased in my iron collar, hmm? I imagine the rest of your body is just as pale and beautiful. Pure and unsullied. I'm going to have such fun decorating you in my marks. I can't wait to see you lying bound and broken at my feet."  
  
Jensen wanted to dismiss the deranged archduke with a caustic snub. Wanted to tell him that he'd sooner kneel at the feet of a pig. Wanted to explain to Heyerdahl that his body and submission were divine gifts that would never be bestowed upon the archduke. He wanted to tell the poisonous snake of a man that he'd rather throw himself from the highest point of the palace, would rather jump from the keep and lie dead at the base of the castle foundations than live and lie broken at Heyerdahl's feet. He wanted to… but somehow he couldn't. He couldn't even swallow the lump of fear in his throat. He could barely even find enough courage to breathe.  
  
Archduke Heyerdahl grinned at Jensen, his teeth yellowed, uneven, and surely unnaturally sharp, then he ducked his head and inhaling deeply, sniffed Jensen's hair where it curled around his ear. Jensen had endured unsettling moments in his life. As a boy, he'd clung to a horse as it took fright and galloped at speed in to the depths of the forest; he'd hidden in his closet as raiders searched his private rooms before finally being discovered by the royal guards; he'd been forced to kill a deranged man who’d attempted to defile him before he'd even reached the age of consent, and yet none of these things affected him as much as that simple act by Heyerdahl.  
  
Fear consumed him like a raging forest fire. Sane reasoning fled Jensen's mind. The fact that he was safe in the heart of his family's home and surrounded by scores of people slipped away. Terror grasped his very soul in its vice-like grip and squeezed.  
  
"You can feel it, can't you my young prince?" The archduke hissed in Jensen's ear. "You can feel the power I hold. This country of yours is a young and naive one, Prince Jensen. My lands lie far from here across the Strange sea and there, Jensen... there we have subs that know their place. Subs that know they are nothing more than playthings. Toys that can be picked up, used and discarded by whomever can afford them. Subs that prostrate themselves in my presence. That beg to be torn apart for my amusement and entertainment."  
  
Jensen felt the blood leave his face in a rush. Lightheaded, he swayed on his feet then stumbled backwards a step, colliding painfully with the stone wall behind him. He'd heard that in times gone by, in some foreign lands, subs had been abused and treated as possessions. That they'd had no rights and, too often, short and unhappy lives, but he'd always assumed that these horrors were a thing of the past. The thought of subs like himself suffering at the hands of men like Heyerdahl made Jensen's stomach twist in tense knots and acidic bile force its way up into his throat. He swallowed thickly, desperate not to retch right there in public and show Heyerdahl the overwhelming panic consuming him. Shaking his head, he stuttered out a soft 'no' and grimaced at how pathetically weak he sounded.  
  
"You think I'm a monster, young prince?" The Archduke sneered, leaning in towards Jensen, not quite touching him but effectively caging him against the wall with his arms. "You think there's no way that I'll ever own you? Trust me, little sub, I know dark magics and witchcraft that no-one in your kingdom has dared dream of. One way or another, I'm not leaving this land without you, collared and leashed at my side."  
  
"Archduke Heyerdahl, I don't believe we've been formally introduced."  
  
Jensen sagged limply against the wall in relief. The deep rumbling growl of that rough voice was the sweetest symphony to have ever played in Jensen's ears. In the dim light, he thought he saw a flicker of icy hatred in the Archduke's steely eyes just before he straightened and drew away from Jensen, turning to face the man standing behind them; the man with his hand on the well-worn hilt of the sword at his side and the crest of the Royal House of Ackles on the polished armor of his breastplate.  
  
"No, I don't believe we have been, but then I don't usually waste my valuable time talking to footmen."  
  
Jensen straightened his knees as Heyerdahl spoke, attempting to regain his balance enough to sidle out from behind the archduke.  
  
"So, I've heard, your Grace. I, however, am Sir Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Royal Knight and sworn protector of His Highness, Prince Jensen of the Royal House of Ackles and I believe my young charge is ready to leave your charming company. Your Highness?"  
  
The archduke had little option but to step aside and let Jensen stumble towards his knight. Sir Morgan's expression darkened when Jensen finally stepped into the light. The unhealthy pallor of his complexion and his less than steady gait no doubt exposing just how shaken Jensen truly was, much to his humiliation.  
  
Sir Morgan reached out, offering Jensen his left hand for support even as his right hand tightened perceptibly on the handle of his sword. Gratefully, Jensen laid his hand in his knight's, drawing enough strength from his protector to finally straighten his back, lift his chin and right the crown that had slipped down at an awkward angle over the side of his head. He even managed to offer up a shaky smile in an effort to soothe the murderous expression on Sir Morgan's face.  
  
"I'm afraid your rooms in the palace have unfortunately suffered from a nasty infestation of filthy cockroaches," Sir Morgan announced in a brittle tone harsher than Jensen had ever heard before. "I'll have your belongings removed and relocated. I believe there is a room available at one of the guest lodges out with the palace grounds; I'll ensure the guards escort you there safely."  
  
Jensen could feel the air surrounding them simmer with barely restrained fury as knight and archduke stared unflinchingly at each other. The archduke blinked first, his lips splitting wide open in a mocking travesty of a smile. "Thank you, Sir Morgan. That is very kind of you. Please pass on my thanks to the King and Queen for their gracious hospitality. Prince Jensen, our talk was most illuminating. I look forward to our next meeting when I can enlighten you further on the customs of my country. Who knows, maybe you will even grace us with your presence one day and I can _personally_ demonstrate how very welcoming we can be."  
  
It took all of Jensen's strength to turn his back on the grinning archduke and walk away at a steady pace. He wanted to break into a run. Deep down where he would never admit it, he wanted his trusted protector to draw his sword and slice Heyerdahl's head clean from his body. He wanted to know that he would never have to witness that grotesque grin again.  
  
"Are you alright, your highness?" Sir Jeffrey asked quietly, as soon as they were half way across the room and well away from Heyerdahl.  
  
"I am now, thanks to you." Jensen replied sounding far more like the boy of sixteen he was when he first entered his protector knight's care than the grown man of eighteen he had since become.  
  
"That man is a serpent with legs. The sooner, he and his louts board their ship and depart our lands the sooner I will breathe easy.” Sir Morgan snarled through gritted teeth as they skirted around the revelers dancing and cavorting in the middle of the great hall, all obviously full of spirit water and having a riotous time. “What were you thinking allowing yourself to be backed into a corner by that fiend? Have I not taught you any better? Gods above, Jensen, if your instincts didn’t tell you to run in the opposite direction of that insane despot, then I have bitterly failed you.”  
  
“No, no… I’m… I’m sorry, Jeff… Sir Morgan,” Jensen replied, stuttering in his haste to apologize; shame and embarrassment heating his face and causing his shoulders to hunch and head to droop. “I don’t know what happened. He was just there in… in front of me and his men… then… I didn’t…. I couldn’t…. he looked at me and my heart froze in f…fear and I couldn’t-“  
  
Sir Morgan swiftly escorted Jensen out of a narrow doorway that led to a draughty corridor which connected the grand hall to the palace kitchens. A serving girl, carrying a large jug full to the brim with spirit water, witnessing them appear, stopped sharply in her tracks then turned tail and retreated back the way she’d came. Jensen would have felt bad to have caused her fright had he been able to see beyond the salty tears streaming from his eyes and sobs shaking his shoulders. The only thing he was aware of was his knight spinning him around and pressing him against the staunch support of the coolly sympathetic stone wall. “Shhh, Jensen, shhhh. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault at all. I’m angry at Heyerdahl not you. I’m even angrier at myself for not being by your side when you needed me.”  
  
Suddenly shivering, either with cold or shock he was unsure, Jensen threw himself against Jeff; wrapping his arms around Jeff’s neck and clinging to him like a needy child. Even the cold barrier of his knight’s breastplate couldn’t stop Jensen from finding comfort in the warmth of his protector’s embrace.  
  
Sir Morgan soothed Jensen with gentle words and soft petting against the hollow of his back until, apart from the occasional hiccup, Jensen’s breathing evened out and his fierce grip around Jeff’s neck loosened enough to allow Jeff to talk. “Calm down, Jensen. Dry your eyes and steady yourself. I’m sorry I raged at you. I was… worried. Seeing that man so close to you, pinning you to that wall… I’ve never wanted to kill someone quite as badly.”  
  
“I rather wanted you to run him through with your sword myself,” Jensen admitted with a watery smile. “Although, I doubt the king and queen would have approved of such a bloody disruption to their Valentine’s ball.”  
  
Sir Morgan grimaced and his brown eyes deepened to the color of burnt walnut, “I imagine if they’d seen Archduke Heyerdahl threatening you with their own eyes, they would have heartily approved. Come, let me take you back to your rooms before I ensure that Heyerdahl and his companions are removed from the castle grounds.”  
  
“Jeff, can you hold me, just for a minute… please, Sir. You know how your touch calms me.”  
  
Jeff stiffened against Jensen before gently grasping his arms and tugging them free from their grip around his neck. “Prince Jensen, I can’t. I shouldn’t… you shouldn’t seek my touch. Your dom, when you find him, he-“  
  
“No, Jeff, please don’t deny this, don’t deny me.” Jensen begged, distraught at his knight’s rejection. “I’ve found my dom. You know I have. I found him when I was sixteen years old and even although he refused to touch me, I knew straight away that I’d found the man I wanted to honor with my purity and submission.”  
  
“Jensen, we’ve been through this too many times.” Jeff stated, stepping backwards, distancing himself from the prince. He rubbed his fingers across his neatly trimmed beard and tilted his head so as to avoid looking at the hurt expression on Jensen's face, trying desperately to hide how upset he was at rebutting Jensen’s affections yet again. “Apart from the fact that you are barely eighteen years of age and I am a grizzled old man closing in on my thirtieth year, I am a simple knight born of common blood while you are third in line to the throne. Our union would never be accepted. Not by your father and certainly not by his council.”  
  
Jensen ripped the crown from his head, clenching it one hand at arm’s length, and shaking it violently as though it was the cause of all his problems. “I don’t care about gaining the king’s approval, Jeff or the court’s. All I care about is securing yours. Please Sir, reconsider. We’ll find a way to wed; we can marry in secret or run away-“  
  
“No, Jensen, no! You are not leaving your home and your family. Enough of this madness. I’m taking you back to your rooms where you can sleep off this evening’s excitement, then tomorrow… tomorrow you can continue on your quest to find a suitable marriage partner.”  
  
Another tiny piece of Jensen’s heart broke away and crumbled to dust every time Jeff denied their unbound bond, but Jensen knew as sure as night swallowed day; Sir Jeffrey Dean Morgan was the man with whom he would spend his life.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, this is so late - I'm sorry!! Words refused to be herded into sentences and sentences point blank refused to line up in an orderly fashion and form paragraphs. Hopefully my grasp of the English language will improve and part three will be posted before we all die of old age.
> 
> Please note the added warnings!

Jeff all but shoved Jensen, propelling him less than gently over the threshold of his private chambers before yanking the door firmly shut behind the young prince. Closing his eyes for just a heartbeat, he gave silent thanks that the sturdy oak door had finally dulled the tirade of the prince's irate complaints. It also hid from Jeff’s view the anger, and worse the hurt, shadowing those green eyes. A second later, as Jeff turned around, something weighty bounced against the back of the door just level with his head. Jeff would have been more embarrassed by the way he flinched and ducked at the resounding thud if the soldiers by his side hadn't reacted in a similar fashion. Hopefully Jensen'd had the sense to fling something less valuable and irreplaceable than his crown at the door. Jeff had enough problems without having to protect the prince from his father’s wrath when he explained that one.  
  
"Nobody in or out of this room,” Jeff growled at the pair of guards flanking the prince's doorway. “Prince Jensen is to remain in his rooms for his own safety. His highness doesn't step foot out here, not unless his chambers are ablaze."  
  
"Nobody, Sir Morgan?" The smaller of the guards asked. Chau, Jeff thought, grasping to recall the young man's name, Osric Chau; young and slight in stature, but talented with a blade, courageous and unquestioningly loyal. Only men and women whom Jeff trusted were allowed to guard the prince's rooms. And Jeff's trust was not easily gained.  
  
"No messengers, no courtiers, no servants and definitely no drunken guests from this evening's ball... or even sober guests. Unless the king or queen themselves desire to visit with the prince, you permit no entry. If anyone has a problem with that order, I'll be more than happy to answer their complaints with the sharp edge of my sword."  
  
Jeff noted the visible gulp the guards took but didn't bother waiting for a response to his command. Especially not when a second thud and a muffled barrage of profanities sounded from the room behind him. He left the guards exchanging nervous glances with each other and set off in the direction of his own quarters.  
  
He considered ensuring that Heyerdahl and his men had been evicted from the castle grounds but it was an unnecessary errand. He’d passed the responsibility for removing the archduke and his party from the castle onto the capable shoulders of Captain Kane. Kane was a good man and an excellent soldier, the best in Jeff's company and Jeff was in no doubt that Kane would execute his order swiftly. Although Jeff had wanted nothing more than to personally drag Heyerdahl and his men out of the castle, preferable as painfully and humiliatingly as possible, he knew with iron-clad certainty that if he set eyes on Heyerdahl right now he'd be unable to resist slicing the snake's head clean from his shoulders. That, he'd surmised, might just cause a diplomat incident.  
  
Opening the door to his room, Jeff wasted no time in divesting himself of his armor. With entirely more force than required, he threw the polished steel of his breastplate onto his bed, and then watched as it bounced and clattered to the floor. Feeling like a fool, he bent down and retrieved it. He set it carefully on a chair before sitting down heavily on his bed, dropping his head into and hands and blowing out an unsteady breath.  
  
Good god, Jensen was a stubborn brat! He also possessed an impressive knowledge of a wide and varied range of expletives for a well-bred prince. Perhaps Jeff had allowed him to spend too much time sparring with his soldiers. Kneading his fingers into his temples, Jeff attempted to chase away the tense band of pain gradually swelling behind his eyes. That boy was going to be the death of him one of these days. No, not boy, he reminded himself. Jensen was eighteen years old now; officially a grown man. Still a brat though. One that needed a firm hand and a sound spanking from a dom who knew how to deal with the temper tantrums of an obstinate sub. A dom who loved him _because_ of his wilful nature rather than despite of it. Jeff wanted to be that dom so badly that he ached with need. But as much as he yearned to have the boy in his arms and his bed, to have Jensen tethered to his side forever, he knew it was impossible.  
  
The king and queen would never allow their youngest son to wed a commoner. Even if Jensen was a dom or a more common switch, the king and queen and their advisors would likely never permit it, but with Jensen being a sub... well, it was unthinkable. Jensen was currently third in line to the throne, and although it was improbable he would ever be king, it was still a possibility. The idea that the future king would wed and pledge his obedience to a dom who wasn't of a similar status was enough to give the advisors of the king conniptions. No, it would never be allowed. Which was disappointing to say the least, considering that Jeff was head over heels in love with the infuriating boy.  
  
Jensen had just turned sixteen years old and newly declared himself as a sub when the king appointed Jeff as the prince's protector. Jeff, to put it mildly, had not been thrilled. Jeff's knighthood was no vanity title, had not been handed to him on a silver platter. He'd earned it the dirty way; fought in violent border skirmishes, shed blood - too frequently his own -and led hundreds of soldiers in defense of Richmond and its citizens. He was a battle hardened warrior... not a babysitter.  
  
Presuming that Prince Jensen, as the youngest child of the king and queen, would be a coddled and self-centered layabout, Jeff had expected to detest both him and his new position. Then he'd met Jensen. Even at sixteen, still not much more than a slip of a boy, he'd been a revelation. As kind as he was beautiful, soft-spoken, stutteringly shy and with a smile that could illuminate a darkened room, the boy had charmed Jeff in an instant. He'd also awakened Jeff's long dormant and repressed dominant instincts in a way that terrified Jeff as much as it excited him.  
  
Obviously, he'd squelched those instincts, pushed them down somewhere dark and inaccessible despite their grumbling complaints. Jensen was his charge, his responsibility; his safety was Jeff's first priority. He was not Jeff's submissive. He _was_ a child of sixteen and the sweetest sin of temptation.  
  
In the two years since then, Jensen had grown from a delicately pretty boy, lacking in confidence but not courage, into a young man with an unnatural beauty, a loving heart and a fiercely determined spirit. He'd also, despite Jeff's best efforts, fallen in love with Jeff just as irrevocably as Jeff had with him. It was a dire situation.  
  
On the prince's eighteenth birthday, the day he became a man, Jensen dropped to his knees at Jeff's feet and offered himself, body and spirit, to his knight. He’d pleaded with Jeff to accept his submission and his hand in marriage. Refusing him was the hardest thing that Jeff had ever done; harder even than defeating the hellish armies of Westborough in a battle that had left him scarred in more ways than one. In the short time since that day, neither of them had mentioned Jensen's request and Jeff's subsequent refusal again. That didn't mean that neither man thought of it. In truth, Jeff thought of little else these days.  
  
Levering himself up from his bed, weariness weighing down his bones and regret crushing his heart, Jeff set about his evening ablutions before bedding down for the night. On bended knee, head dipped low in his usual ritual of evening prayer, Jeff gave thanks to the Lord and prayed for his soul and Jensen's; prayed that the morn would bring Jensen new love and the chance for a future filled with happiness and a royal husband even part-way worthy of the prince’s love. If he didn't pray for Jensen to find new love enthusiastically or without doubt and jealousy, then that was between him and his maker.  
  


***

  
Jensen paced his rooms grumbling under his breath and wiping away an errant tear or two, his emotions warring dizzyingly between anger and heartache. How dare Sir Morgan banish him to his room like an unruly child? He'd attempted to slip out earlier, for no nefarious reason, only to be barred from leaving by two apologetic but resolute guards. He was a full grown man and Sir Morgan was still treating him like a defenseless youth. It was frustrating and humiliating beyond belief. Jensen had fantasized about Jeff disciplining him in many ways but shutting him in his rooms and ignoring him was not one of them.  
  
He couldn't understand Jeff's refusal to bond with him. Oh, he understood the arguments, Jeff had cited them often enough; he was older than Jensen, he was a commoner, the court would never allow it, Jensen deserved better. Well, Jensen disagreed. There was no one better, more suited, no-one that Jensen wanted to hand his gift of submission to more than Jeff. The one reason that Jensen might have accepted for his advances being scorned was the one reason that Jeff couldn't honestly offer. Jeff truly loved Jensen just as deeply as Jensen loved him. Surely that was the only fact of any import. If tonight's ball had proven one thing to Jensen, it was that there was no-one worthier than Jeff of his love.  
  
Jensen's wishes would be ignored no longer. One way or another he would convince Jeff, the court and his parents that he knew his own mind. That he would rather die than wed anyone other than his knight.  
  


***

  
Hidden deep in the shadow of the castle walls, Archduke Heyerdahl silently slid his sword from its sheath; the blood-stained blade invisible in the inky depth of the moonless night. He felt the air around him move as the four men accompanying him followed suit and drew their weapons. By the time the sun rose, the house of Ackles would discover how severely they'd underestimated the archduke. And he'd be in possession of the prettiest little sub in the entire continent.  
  


***

  
"I cannot believe that not one of the guests this evening appealed to you, Jensen."  
  
Jensen thought it decidedly unfair that although he wasn't allowed to leave his rooms, the queen had encountered no problem entering them. He was also sorely tired of hearing about his failings.  
  
"Did you even give them a chance?" His mother asked, stepping across Jensen's boots which lay haphazardly on the floor where they'd landed after Jensen had launched them at the back of his door. "The Lady Danneel was most enamored of you and yet you turned her down after just one dance. One dance, Jensen!"  
  
"Mother, Lady Danneel is charming and beautiful, but I didn't even need one dance to know that she isn't what I am seeking in a partner."  
  
"Lord Hardy then or Prince Welling, did you even talk to the Duke of Lawrence? Tomorrow you must devote your time to meeting those suitors that have travelled here to win your hand. I have arranged a lunch that you will-"  
  
Jensen could take it no longer. "No, your Royal Highness, I will not."  
  
It was almost comical the way that the queen's eyebrows flew into her hairline. "I beg your pardon, Jensen?"  
  
"Mother, I know you mean well." Jensen approached the queen and eased the blow of his disobedience by placing a kiss on the back of her hand before leading her to the chairs beside his window.  
  
The queen sat, stiff backed and frowning as Jensen dropped to one knee in front of her. "Mother, I will not find a marriage partner among any of the honored guests in the castle. My heart and soul already belong to another."  
  
"If that's true, my child, why would you keep this wonderful news to yourself?" The queen asked, clutching her hand to her breast in surprise.  
  
Swallowing hard and preparing himself for the worst, Jensen admitted, "Because my chosen mate does not believe that he will meet with your approval and refuses to accept my submission."  
  
"Good god, Jensen, please tell me you have not pledged yourself to the stable-boy!"  
  
"The stable-boy?" Jensen repeated, shock dulling his wits.  
  
Fanning her face with her hand as though warding off a fainting spell, the queen confirmed that Jensen had heard correctly. "Jared, the stable-boy. I always said that you were closer to him than was entirely proper. I admit he's handsome, Jensen, just like his father, with his broad shoulders, wild hair, and those startling eyes-"  
  
"No, mother! No, it's not Jared, although by the way you speak, I suspect that you may have a crush on a certain Padalecki." Jensen ignored the blush spreading over his mother's face and carried on before she chastised him for his impudence. "Jared is my friend. A true and trusted friend, but no more than that."  
  
"Then who-"  
  
"Sir Morgan."  
  
"Your protector?"  
  
"Yes, mother."  
  
"His job was to shield you from harm not seduce you."  
  
"Jeff did not seduce me, mother."  
  
"I'm sure you think that true, Jensen, but a predator like Morgan-"  
  
"But nothing," Jensen retorted, anger propelling him to his feet. "Jeff has been nothing but a friend and protector to me for the past two years. He's taught me many things, encouraged my learning and broadened my horizons, strengthened my confidence and encouraged me to trust in myself, but he has not spent a single second of our time together encouraging my affections. Do you think him that cruel? Do you consider me that naive? Do you think I am that pathetic that I would let myself be swayed by someone merely because he spoke kindly to me and defended me from harm? Do you think that Sir Morgan, who has risked his life and liberty countless times for the sake of our country and its people, is the type of man to prey on a vulnerable young submissive? Do you think I would fall in love with someone that despicable?"  
  
A frigid silence descended over the room once Jensen fell quiet. The only noise audible, his own harsh breaths and the steady tock of the brave little clock on the mantle. He'd never raised his voice to the queen before. Not once. He didn't regret his words, but he was ashamed of his lack of propriety. A royal child should possess better control of his temper.  
  
"Well, Jensen, I must say that was unexpected." Rising imperiously from the chair, the queen stood; spine unflinchingly straight, shoulders back, chin raised and eyes blazing. Suddenly she looked far more like the imposing Queen of Richmond who grown men grovelled before, than the loving mother Jensen adored. "Unexpected and uncalled for. Sir Morgan possibly taught you many things but civility was apparently not one of them"  
  
"Please accept my apologies, your Royal Highness." Jensen dipped his head in deference to his mother. "I should never have shouted. That was unforgivable. Sir Morgan would not be pleased by my behavior this evening."  
  
"No, indeed he would not. Sir Morgan is an honorable man. A courageous and trustworthy man and I apologize for suggesting otherwise."  
  
Jensen jerked his head up in astonishment at his mother's apology. The queen softened her stance and broke her icy glare with a gentle smile. Reaching out with her gloved hand, she ruffled his hair. "You look surprised, Jensen. You don't think I am brave enough to admit an error." Jensen stared speechless at his mother. That was not the rebuke he'd expected.  
  
Taking Jensen's hand, which Jensen realized with some surprise was trembling like a spring leaf in the wind, the queen led him to the nearby love-seat where she pulled him down to sit by her side. "You know, you were such a beautiful child; so good-natured and desperate to please everyone. Your father and I were almost certain that you would present as a submissive. The only thing that made us doubt it was your stubbornness. Once you set your heart on something, there was no reasoning with you. I've never known such an obstinate child. I remember when your sister started taking riding lessons; you decided that you were old enough to learn too. You were only five years old and so small for your age, tiny compared to the horses, but every day you managed to wriggle free from nanny Stewart's clutches and follow your sister down to the stables. You never screamed or cried when we retrieved you and brought you back to the castle, but you also never gave up. It took three weeks before your father eventually capitulated and decided to put you on a horse." The queen laughed, a light and airy sound like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, her eyes distant as she recalled the fond memory. "I think he hoped that once you were perched atop the horse, so high up and unsteady, you'd discover it wasn't as fun you'd imagined. Naturally, you loved it. Your chubby little face lit up with glee and we struggled to pry you off the beast's back. Now of course, you're one of the best horsemen in the land."  
  
A flash of heat overcame Jensen, his pale complexion no doubt glowing red by the time his mother had finished her story. He shifted uneasily on the seat, drawing his mother's attention. She laughed again, the musical tinkle a delight to hear. "I don't tell you this to embarrass you, my sweet son. Well, not just to embarrass you. Sir Morgan is of course correct in his assumption; your father and the royal court will not happily accept him as your dom."  
  
"But-" Jensen started to argue, only to be hushed by his mother placing a finger across the bow of his lips.  
  
"Let me finish, Jensen. Sir Jeffrey has no royal lineage, is of common blood and the country would gain no political advantage in your bonding. He is however, a loyal, steadfast and brave warrior; a true knight in every sense of the word. I... I think he may be your perfect match."  
  
For the first time in forever, Jensen felt a flicker of true hope spark in his chest. "Mother, I... _really_?"  
  
"Maybe. I want to talk to him first, find out for myself if he is as worthy as you think he is, but Jensen... I know you and I trust your judgment. If your heart is set on this match then I doubt anyone will be able to convince you otherwise. You will need all your strength and tenacity to win over your father and his advisors, but if you are sure that this is what you want, then I will stand by your side."  
  
Jensen hadn't hugged the queen in years; physical affection was not common place in the royal family, but he couldn't stop himself at that moment from throwing his arms around his mother. "Thank you, thank you. You are the most wonderful mother... I love you so much... thank you."  
  
The queen wrapped her arms around Jensen for a moment and rubbed soothing circles across his back like she'd done when he was a small child ill with whooping cough. "It's as much for my own sanity as your happiness," she said finally, extricating herself from Jensen's embrace. "I've experienced your stubbornness often enough to know that it would be easier convincing the rivers to stop flowing downhill than it would be steering you from your chosen path."  
  
Jensen couldn't keep the smile from his lips. Even when the queen bid him goodnight and returned to her own rooms, he felt less alone than he had in months. Though his future was still uncertain, the hope that his mother's support had given him lifted his spirits so high he felt as though he were floating.  
  


***

  
Jeff woke early after an unsettled night's sleep. The sheets of his bed, damp with sweat, were tangled in knots around his legs. It had taken hours for his mind to still enough to finally allow sleep to overcome him. Even then, his dreams refused to offer him any respite; blurred and confusing images of Jensen assaulted him. Nightmares of Heyerdahl pinning the terrified prince against the wall by his throat while Jeff watched dispassionately; of Jensen dancing, thrown from one grasping hand to another, spinning wildly across the floor and crying out for Jeff the whole time. Pictures of Jensen’s face filled with fear and pain that haunted Jeff even now the first weak streaks of dawn were creeping through his window.  
  
Scrubbing a hand across his face, Jeff chased away the lingering specters of his dreams. He didn’t feel any better now, in the light of day, about turning down Jensen’s advances again. In fact, he was starting to think that he’d acted rather cowardly. What kind of man was he, if he didn’t even attempt to win the hand of the man he loved? He didn’t doubt that Jensen knew his own mind. The prince was nothing if not strong-willed. If he’d declared his love for Jeff openly, he must be certain of his feelings. Maybe Jeff was doing him a disservice by thinking he knew what was best for the prince. He hadn’t lied to Jensen; he knew the royal family and their advisors would be violently opposed to Jensen marrying Jeff. But Jeff had fought for poorer reasons than love in the past.  
  
By the time he’d dragged himself from the warmth of his bed and into the chilled air of his bathroom, Jeff had resolved to stop denying his feelings for the prince, to stand and fight for the right to wed the man he loved. Maybe it was a selfish action on Jeff’s part but the more he considered it, the clearer the choice became. The anger and jealousy he felt watching Prince Jensen simply talking to his suitors last night would be nothing compared to the agony he'd suffer watching Jensen marry another. Jeff would rather have his beating heart ripped from his chest than witness Jensen submit to anyone but him.  
  
Jeff strolled out of his bathroom, whistling happily and feeling calmer than he had in weeks. Nerves danced in his stomach but he was hopeful about what the day ahead might bring now that he’d reached a decision and had a plan of how to proceed; talk to Jensen first, then approach the king, then brace for the fallout and prepare to be flogged and thrown in the dungeons. It was admittedly not a well thought-out plan.  
  
He was naked other than his breeches, water still dripping down his neck as he dried himself off, when the door to his quarters burst open.  
  
“Sir Morgan,” Captain Kane gasped, his chest heaving and ashen face beading with sweat as he barged into Jeff’s room in obvious distress. “Come quickly… it’s… it’s the prince Sir… it’s… oh God, just come quickly.”  
  
Jeff didn’t even stop to don a shirt or pull on his boots, he raced after Kane, who’d turned and sprinted down the winding hallway to Prince Jensen’s quarters. He skid to a sudden halt at the prince's door; his gut twisting at the horrific sight that greeted him. Two soldiers lay stiff and cold on the stone floor, their throats sliced so deeply that their heads were barely attached to their necks. One of them was Chau, the young guardsman. He looked no older than a boy as his slender body lay in a drying pool of blood, eyes wide open and staring lifelessly at Jeff from his colorless face.  
  
“Kane, the prince…” Jeff couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t move, was rooted to the spot. He could only imagine what gruesome sight awaited him in the prince’s chambers.  
  
Captain Kane stepped across the bodies of the guards and disappeared into the room beyond.  
  
Jeff took a deep breath, steadied himself and followed.  
  
The room was ransacked. Furniture tipped sideways. The bed linens torn. Torn and bloody. And Jensen… Jensen was gone.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An apology at this point seems inadequate. It's been so long since I updated this story that it's just downright embarrassing. I had, to be honest, given up on continuing this, but after some gentle prodding and veiled threats, I have finally gotten to grips with it again. It might not be perfect, so apologies, but if I don't post now, I fear I never will; I've read it over so many times that it's all becoming a blur.
> 
> Part four is very nearly finished, and should be posted within the week. I'm not promising that this story will be updated weekly, but I am promising to finish it.

Jeff's fingers were trembling so violently that buttoning up his shirt felt like an insurmountable task. Terror and fury warred within him, guilt fueling the battle. If only he'd been there guarding the prince. If only he hadn't left Jensen's safety in the hands of others. If only he hadn't spurned his sub's affections. _His sub_. It was doubtful now that Jensen would ever be his sub. He didn't even know for certain that Jensen was still alive. He was. He had to be. Dear God above, he had to be.

Frustrated beyond measure with his own lack of control, Jeff threw his hands down to his sides and curled them into tight fists, his knuckles paling under the pressure. He drew in a deep unsteady breath, held it in until his lungs strained, exhaled slowly, and then inhaled deeply again, repeated the action, once, twice. Took control of his breathing if not his racing thoughts. He didn't have time for this. Every minute that he wasted panicking and fumbling like a fool was an extra minute gained by Heyerdahl.

Archduke Heyerdahl. Jeff ground his teeth together at the thought of the man. He wanted to flay the skin from Heyerdahl's bones. Wanted to rip him apart slowly, limb by limb. Wanted to slice open the bastard's throat and throw his body to the dogs. Wanted to see him beaten and whipped. Wanted to see the humiliation in his eyes as he soiled himself on the long walk to the hangman's noose. Wanted to carve into him and rip the beating heart from his chest. There were countless ways to kill a man and each of them was too good for that monster. Regardless, one way or another Jeff swore he would see the archduke dead.

They'd found two of Heyerdahl's men, eyes wide open and lifeless, in Prince Jensen's bathroom. A half-hearted attempt had been made to hide their corpses, but Heyerdahl had obviously been in too much of a rush to do a thorough job of it, leaving gruesome proof of his involvement.  Pride had flared in Jeff at the knowledge that Prince Jensen had managed to best two of the archduke's men, but that had quickly evaporated, leaving Jeff feeling sick to the bottom of his stomach.  Jensen had evidently fought like a tiger; despite being outnumbered, the stubborn boy would have resisted Heyerdahl and his men until he could fight no longer. Brave though that undoubtedly was, Jeff couldn't help but imagine the injuries that Jensen might have suffered in the struggle.  Couldn't help but think of the blood-stained sheets tangled upon Jensen's bed.

Enough, Jeff told himself shaking his head in an attempt to clear the phantom image of Jensen, bowed and bloodied, from behind his eyes. He stretched his hands out, grimacing as his fingers trembled, took another deep breath, impatient with himself, and willed them to steady. Enough. Time to act like a knight, a protector.

 

"Sir!" A palace guard rapped, sharp and urgent, on the door of his chamber. "The king and queen request your presence."

Jeff nodded curtly, forced himself to quash his frustration. All he wanted to do was grab his horse and leave now. While he understood the king and queen's desire to see him, he resented the valuable minutes he would lose.

He rushed through his preparations, leaving his room while he was still fastening the leather straps of his lightest breastplate. Other than the helmet he carried under his arm, it was the only piece of armor he planned on donning. Speed and agility were his priorities, not cumbersome layers of defense.

The halls of the castle echoed with shock; news of Prince Jensen's abduction spreading like wildfire; the effects just as devastating. Several maids scurried silently passed Jeff, sniffling into their sleeves. The palace guards were strung tight with anger, fingers itching at their sides, desperate for retribution. Even the walls of the castle itself seemed to bleed unhappiness. Jeff ran his hand over the bare stone outside the king's chambers. Felt the remorse thrum below his hand. The castle mourning like a mother who'd failed to protect her favorite child.

 

Jeff fell to one knee and bowed his chin to his chest as soon as he approached the king and queen. The sight he saw before him when he raised his head was one he'd never witnessed before and never desired to witness again. King Ackles sat on the over-stuffed sofa in the center of his living apartment, his face pinched and lips thin and pale, a sickly imitation of the man who'd danced and caroused with his subjects and friends mere hours ago. He appeared to have aged ten years or more since then. The queen - proud Queen Ackles unceasingly regal and immaculate, never less than perfectly poised - lay crumpled in her husband's lap, limp Iike a rag doll. When she raised her head to meet Jeff's gaze her eyes, red rimmed and blood shot, shimmered like shattered jewels. Unruly strands of hair, breaking free from her tight bun, stuck to the tear tracks winding down her face.

"Bring him home."

Jeff had fully expected to experience the king’s wrath. For his monarch to demand answers. To rage and threaten. Jeff had, after all, failed in his one and only duty - protect the prince. There would undoubtedly be repercussions. Punishment. Jeff s _hould_ be punished.  Harshly.  After Jensen was safe.

It wasn't, however, the king who had addressed him. Instead it was the queen who spoke, her voice as fragile as spun glass.

"Please, Sir Jeffrey. Bring my son home."

"I will," Jeff vowed. "I swear on my life, I will bring Prince Jensen back to you."

The king opened his mouth to speak but the queen wasn't yet finished. She drew herself upright in the seat, her fingers curling around the king's arm for support. “He loves you. My son, he told me that he loves you."

Jeff swallowed nervously, his glance flicking to the shocked drop of the king's jaw before focusing back on the queen once more.

"Is the affection mutual?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Jeff admitted without hesitation. "I am in love with the prince. I didn't...I tried not to-" Jeff stuttered in his rush to explain his appalling behavior.  "I have not laid a finger on him, I give you my oath. I tried to focus his attentions elsewhere, to distance myself from him, but despite my best intentions-"

"You fell in love with him?"

"I did. I apologize. I know I have failed in my duty. If you wish me to leave once I have returned the young prince home, to banish or punish me, I will gladly throw myself at the mercy of the court."

"Just bring him home to me. Bring my son home safely and I will forgive you your transgressions.  As far as punishment goes, I believe Jensen will decide your fate. I will leave his and your futures in his hands." The queen's voice was still as light as silk strands but steel thread stitched her words together.

The king looked as shocked as Jeff at the queen’s declaration.

"Your Majesty-" Jeff started, immediately biting back his reply when the king also spoke out.

"My dear, I do not believe that is at all appropriate. As king I believe that I should-"

The queen snapped her head towards the king, cutting off his indignant objection with a fierce glare. Jeff discreetly looked away so as not to intrude on the silent conversation unfolding between them. When the king's protest remained unfinished it became clear who had won the point.

"We have wasted enough precious time, have we not, Sir Jeffrey? Leave now. Do your duty. Protect my son." The queen's clipped command was an obvious dismissal.

Jeff bowed as he stood, not quite believing he'd correctly interpreted the queen's words. Maybe if he had minutes to spare he would have spoken up, clarified the matter, but the queen was right; too much time had already been wasted.

As custom dictated, Jeff backed away from the king and queen, not turning his back on the monarchs. Alas that also meant he failed to observe Lord and Lady Collins’ unannounced arrival. The resulting tangle of bodies might have been humorous under different circumstances, but now all it succeeded in doing was fueling Jeff's impatience.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lord Collins regained his balance first, bowing before the royal couple. "I humbly apologize for our intrusion, your Royal Highnesses, but my wife and I heard the terrible news and have come to offer our assistance."

"How exactly can you help?" Jeff heard the king ask as he took his leave.

"The archduke is not the only one with magics, Your Majesty." Lady Collins replied. "My husband has his own talents."

Jeff heard no more as he ran full pelt through the hallways. He ignored the shocked looks he received as he dodged servants and soldiers in his path, too desperate to be on his way to care about castle propriety.

 

Captain Kane and three of his best men were already astride their mounts and awaiting his arrival in the courtyard. The horses all fidgeted where they stood, their ears flicked back and nostrils flaring. Jeff's midnight-black stallion snorted and stomped his feet; his tail whipping up in the air anxiously.  Padalecki nearly toppled over in his struggle to hold the reins steady and stop the animal from racing off on its own.  Jared was usually a bundle of energetic good humor, rarely without a smile on his face and quite often to be found planning schemes with Prince Jensen that would cause the castle either great hilarity or the overwhelming urge to strangle the pair of them. Today his infectious smile and dimples were nowhere in sight, buried beneath a strained mask of despair. The fear and anguish in his eyes was unmistakable. Jeff had neither the time, nor the words, to comfort the prince's friend. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t even find it within himself to fake a reassuring smile. Instead as he relieved the young man, the boy really, of the horse's reins, he simply squeezed his shoulder.

"Sir," Kane spoke up. "My men found tracks. Heyerdahl is travelling in a carriage, accompanied by three riders. They were headed in the direction of Lunan. We know that the archduke's ship is anchored out in the bay there."

"Good work, Captain," Jeff nodded grimly, settling in his saddle and patting his horse's neck. The news was unsurprising. He had expected as much. Still, now at least they knew for sure where they were going and what they were dealing with. Knew what they needed to do.

Less than a minute later, Jared stood alone in the courtyard. The clatter of horseshoes galloping across cobblestones thundering through the air and fading into the distance.

 

**********

 

"How much longer until we reach the bay?"

"Another hour or two, your Grace."

"Which is it, Commander Bieler, one hour or two?"

"Closer to two, Your Grace."

"Instruct the driver to whip the horses. The Ackles' guards will be on our heels by now, thanks to the incompetence of your men."

"Your Grace, I'm sorry, but we never expected the sub to possess such fierce abilities with a sword."

Jensen listened silently to the tense exchange, struggling to maintain the slack pose of unconsciousness he'd feigned since first waking. Although he'd failed in preventing his own abduction, he took grim satisfaction from the fact that he hadn't gone down without a fight. Two of Heyerdahl's men had fallen at his hand before the others had overpowered him. He'd kicked and twisted like a madman under their bruising hold while Heyerdahl had forced a rag over his nose and mouth; a sickly sweet scent winding its way down his throat the last thing Jensen recalled before the world had faded to black. Awaking, dry mouthed and groggy, he found himself lying belly down, wrists secured behind his back with stiff hemp rope that dug painfully into his skin. By his cramped positioning, the rough jolting of the floor beneath him and the clear voices of his captors above him, he deduced that he was lying on the floor of a carriage between the feet of Heyerdahl and his commander.

Jensen continued to play possum. The thought of drawing Heyerdahl's attention on himself enough to suppress the shivers of cold that wracked him; Jensen's thin nightclothes were doing little to protect him from the chill of the late winter's air.

The archduke's nasal tones grated at Jensen's nerves once more as he spat back at the commander. "Maybe if your men spent more time training and less time whoring, this pathetic creature would not have bested them. Your ineptitude cost me dearly. Instead of abducting the prince, murdering his protector and as many Ackles' as we could find in their beds, we struggled to capture one sub and were forced to run before the whole castle awoke with the sound of our soldiers squealing like stuck pigs."

"We couldn't have known, your Grace, that the queen would visit so late with the prince. If we'd attempted to overpower the six royal knights guarding her, as well as the pair of soldiers at the prince's door, the battle would surely have woken the whole castle. You gave the order to wait yourself, my Grace."

"The plan would still have worked," the archduke hissed, "if your imbecilic soldiers had any notion of stealth or swordsmanship. If it hadn't taken so long to subdue the prince, if he hadn't killed two men before I had to step in and disarm him, we would have had time to at least hunt down Morgan. Instead we managed only to kill two worthless guards."

"I'm sorry, your Grace, but we do at least have the sub in our possession."

"Be assured, Bieler, if we didn’t, I'd have already sliced you open, ripped out your intestines and tossed your gutted carcass from this carriage for the vultures to feast on. Now climb out there and get these horses moving. I want to be back on my ship before the king's men get us within their sights."

With the frighteningly calm manner in which the archduke spoke, and his commander’s swift reaction, Jensen didn't doubt for one second that the archduke had carried out similar punishments to those who'd failed him previously. Unfortunately, in his haste to exchange the unpleasant atmosphere inside the carriage for the colder, but doubtless  more pleasant seat alongside the driver, the commander trampled none too gently on Jensen's ankle as he clambered out the carriage door. The yelp which fell from Jensen's mouth was entirely involuntary. And a mistake. Jensen instinctively looked up to see if Heyerdahl had heard him just as Heyerdahl's gaze snapped down to Jensen, bound at his feet.

"Ahhh, Prince Jensen, how very nice of you to join us."

Jensen snapped his eyes shut and turned his head away, cursing himself for his foolish mistake. Obviously, feigning sleep was now pointless, but still, he had no desire to converse with the archduke. Maybe closing his eyes and hiding his face was childish, but rather that than look into Heyerdahl’s soulless eyes.

"Now, now, Prince Jensen. That's hardly polite. Why don't you rise to your knees and greet me in the proper way a sub should greet his dom."

Jensen grit his teeth together and tried not to vomit at the idea of kneeling at the feet of a man who was more monster than human.

"You're shy? How very... ill-mannered. Your utter lack of training is disappointing, although not entirely unexpected." The archduke grabbed hold of Jensen's bound arms and heaved until Jensen found himself pulled up to his knees. Jensen wriggled desperately, trying to buck out of his grip, but that only resulted in the archduke yanking Jensen fiercely by the hair with one hand while his other wrapped around Jensen's throat so tightly, he couldn't draw breath.

"That's it, my little prince, struggle all you like. Oh, yes, that's beautiful. I'm going to have such fun breaking you." Jensen's heartbeat thundered in his chest like a stampede of wild horses, but he still refused to capitulate and look in the face of his captor.

Heyerdahl tightened his fingers even further around Jensen's throat in retaliation, digging in so viciously that Jensen worried they would pierce his skin, tear into his flesh.  Anger didn't color the archduke's tone though; it remained slick with insidious charm. "Come along, my pretty thing. Open those big green eyes of yours and look upon your master."

Despite wishing to remain blind in the face of such evil, Jensen found himself unable to keep his eyes, nor his mouth, sealed shut for a moment longer. As soon as his eyes blinked open, Heyerdahl unclasped his fingers from around Jensen's neck allowing him to suck in a frantic gasp of air. Heyerdahl's face, mere inches away from his own, appeared eerily inhuman in the shadowed interior of the carriage; his pale eyes glinting with malice and his thin lips curved in a sickening parody of a smile.

"You are not and will never be my master," Jensen said, voice broken and rasping but not silenced.

His defiance didn't even cause Heyerdahl to blink. "Ahh, yes, there are those lovely eyes. So unusual and so full of fire. For a sub, you are remarkably spirited. Don't worry I'll soon beat that trait out of you."

Jensen's breath hitched at the threat, at the dark power lacing every word the archduke uttered. He wanted to yell and punch and fight, but he felt utterly drained. Defenseless. Weak. He could barely work up enough moisture in his mouth to spit in the man's face. When the archduke raised his hand and scratched one sharp fingernail down the ridge of Jensen's cheekbone, he could do nothing more than shiver.

"You belong to me now." Heyerdahl leaned down until his nose was nearly buried in Jensen's hair. "Your body, your mind, your spirit - it's all mine. By the time I've finished training you, you'll be the most loyal pet a man could own."

Jensen shook his head attempting to clear the ridiculous haze of panic consuming him. He hadn't spent hours training with Jeff, practicing sword skills until his hands blistered, learning unarmed combat that left him bruised and exhausted, just to fall apart and become a helpless damsel in distress when it mattered.

Heyerdahl twisted his fingers in Jensen's hair sending a flash of pain through his skull. And although most definitely unpleasant, it did at least help focus Jensen's thoughts.

"You're insane," he gasped, swallowing hard. "My parents-"

"Your parents," the archduke sneered. "Your parents are spineless simpletons. They could not prevent me from taking you; they will not succeed in stealing you back."

"They will kill you. They will find you and kill you." The words may only have been whispered but they were spoken without a shadow of doubt. Jensen believed with all his heart that his capture, most likely his death, would be avenged. Sir Morgan would not tire until it was so.

"No, my young prince, they will not. Oh, they will try, that much is true, but not only will they fail; I'll ensure that they die trying. By my own hand, while you watch. Then after I have slaughtered the rest of your family, I, as your dom, will lay claim to their kingdom while you kneel at my feet like a faithful lap-dog."

"You truly are insane." Jensen choked out. "A delusional madman."

"Maybe," Prince Jensen. "But I am also your dom, and you will obey me."

Jensen's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I would rather die."

"No doubt," Heyerdahl laughed. A spiky cruel sound that clawed through Jensen's skin like a barbed switch. "But you will not escape this mortal life until I tire of you, and that day, Prince Jensen, will not come soon. Not before I have killed all those you ever loved and seen your pathetic country brought under my rule. Not until I have ripped the spirit from your soul and the life from your eyes. Not until I have used your body in ways you can't even imagine. Not, dear boy, until I have carved you into my perfect sub."

 

********** 

 

Jeff's stallion flew across the ground, legs a blur of motion, earth and stone kicking up in a cloud behind them. Jeff lay low across his horse's back urging him on faster, uncaring that behind them Kane and his men were struggling to match the frantic pace.

The only advantage they had was their speed. That and their knowledge of the land. Heyerdahl was miles ahead of them, but he was traveling by carriage, and also following the road. Jeff and his men rode the strongest, fastest, fiercest horses in the kingdom and Jeff knew tracks and shortcuts that few were aware of.

A battalion of King Ackles' finest soldiers also followed in their wake. Kane had assured him that the men, angered at the murder of two of their own and the violent abduction of their young prince, were fired up and eager to ensure his safe return. It took time though for even the best army to mobilize. Time Jeff knew they did not have. If they didn't succeed in stopping Heyerdahl before he reached his ship it could take weeks, more likely months and a full invasion of a foreign land, before they managed to rescue Prince Jensen. By that time... well, Jeff couldn't bear to contemplate what torture Heyerdahl might have inflicted upon Jensen within that time.

Jeff dug his heels into his horse's flanks and spurred him on faster still.


	4. Chapter 4

Jensen swayed on his knees, battling to remain upright as the carriage drew to an abrupt standstill; his stoic façade slipping for just a second at the added strain ripping through his fatigued muscles. Already cramps besieged his shoulder blades and arms after being forced backwards unnaturally for so long. That at least served to distract him from the wet sting of his wrists where the coarse rope scraped relentlessly across his skin.

Heyerdahl had kept Jensen on his knees for the entire torturous journey; perched in between his spread thighs, so close to his crotch that Jensen could tell precisely how excited the bastard was to have him imprisoned there. Jensen had leaned back as far as possible from the archduke - and the obscene bulge in his breeches - not an easy thing to do when the carriage was lurching, like a drunken beast, over ever bump and pothole in the road. His rigid posture, and the disgusted upturn of his nose, had not dissuaded the archduke from petting him however; from running his fingers through Jensen's hair, scratching his nails down his throat, brushing his thumb over Jensen's lips. Even worse though, even more disturbing than those unwanted touches, were the words the archduke whispered in his ear; the bitter promises of things to come. Threats and lurid images painted in Jensen's mind that would be forever impossible to erase.

The carriage door opened and Heyerdahl shoved Jensen backwards, unbalancing him completely. Fresh pain lit through his shoulders as he tumbled to the floor and Jensen had to pinch his lips together to contain his whimper.

"It's about time, Bieler,” the archduke snapped, ignoring Jensen’s crumpled body in front of him. “Where did you find these useless horses - the butcher's yard? Grab my bags while I leash the sub."

"Your Grace, I'm afraid we haven’t yet reached our destination. The bay…the bay appears to be unsecure." The nerves in the man's voice were evident, even to Jensen as he lay willing away the fresh agony coursing through him.

"What do you mean, _unsecure_?"

Jensen almost, _almost,_ felt sorry for the soldier when he heard the raw fury in Heyerdahl’s tone.

"There are people on the beach, scores of people, not our soldiers, and the boats...well, our row boats appear to be gone."

"Gone! What…" Heyerdahl hissed, stepping over Jensen and peering out of the carriage door. "What are you talking about? Where are we?"

"On the hill overlooking the bay, Your Grace."

"Where are our boats? Who are those people on the beach? I want answers, Commander Bieler, now!"

"They appear to be local peasants, Your Grace, and I think also soldiers and crew from Lord Collins' party."

"Collins, that interfering cur! We should have wiped out him and his ship when we had the opportunity. I want this dealt with, understand? I want the beach cleared. Slaughter the lot of them if you have to."

"Yes, Your Grace, of course. But, there are so many of them--"

"Are you refusing to follow a simple order, Commander?"

"No…no, Your Grace, but...it may take some time. Maybe...with all due respect, maybe we should look for another location from which to depart. There’s likely another boat further along the coast that we could commandeer. I think-"

"You _think_ -" the archduke growled furiously, leaping out of the carriage and yanking the door shut behind him.

Jensen could no longer hear clearly what was being said, just the indistinct sound of raised voices. Well, one raised voice.

                                                                                                                            

Without the archduke hovering over him, the fog in Jensen's head cleared a little. He didn't know if Heyerdahl actually possessed the dark Magics he bragged about, but his presence certainly made Jensen’s skin crawl and his reasoning flee.

Unfortunately, Jensen had the opportunity to do little more than roll his shoulders and flex his fingers in a vain attempt to ease his aches before Heyerdahl climbed back into the carriage, slamming the door behind him. Almost immediately they started moving again. Back the way they came, if Jensen calculated correctly. This time instead of dragging Jensen up to his knees, the archduke kicked him once in the stomach; a brutal kick that left Jensen winded and watery-eyed.

"Imbeciles and cowards! I'm surrounded by nothing but imbeciles and spineless cowards." Heyerdahl ranted.

Not wanting to bear the brunt of the archduke’s ugly temper, Jensen tucked his head down and made himself as small a target as possible. Another kick caught him in the shin. Jensen tried not to react, but when next Heyerdahl's boot struck his ribs, he couldn't suppress a cry. Once again the archduke grabbed Jensen and hauled him up to his knees, grinning when he saw the tears unwittingly slipping from the corners of Jensen's eyes.

"You are utterly edible when you weep, my little sub," he crowed.

Jensen grimaced, his guts rolling uneasily as Heyerdahl flicked out his tongue and licked a teardrop from his cheek. The archduke laughed, his mood suddenly greatly improved. Casually he pushed Jensen backwards sending him toppling to the floor again in an undignified heap. "Collins thinks he can outwit me with his parlor tricks, but they are simply an inconvenience. My men might be idiots, but even they will easily find another boat to transfer us to my ship. In the meantime, my pretty prince, we have some time to play."

That sounded ominous to Jensen and he cursed his luck when the carriage journey lasted only a matter of minutes. He had hoped for some time to steel himself before the archduke carried out whatever so-called 'playtime' he planned. Jensen suspected that he certainly would not be the one having fun.

Heyerdahl started his games before they even left the carriage. From a black leather bag at his side, one that closely resembled the large medical case which Doctor Beaver carried everywhere, the archduke produced a collar; about two inches wide, dark iron, smooth and unbreakable. He secured it around Jensen's neck, locking it in place with a small key which he tucked away in his inside coat pocket. Next he drew a heavy chain leash from the bag and, ignoring Jensen's outraged objections, proceeded to connect it to the collar at the nape of Jensen’s neck. He wrapped the end of the chain around his hand and, with one fierce yank, cut off Jensen’s protestations. The edge of the collar was sharp, not sharp enough to slice Jensen's throat, but sharp enough to dig painfully into his windpipe and threaten his ability to breathe.

Satisfied that Jensen was restrained and co-operative, the archduke opened the carriage door and climbed out, grabbing his bag with the hand that wasn’t holding the chain. Jensen scrambled to follow, not wanting to feel the bite of the collar against his throat; it wasn’t easy with his hands still bound behind his back and his legs almost numb from spending so long on his knees. Despite the circumstances, it was a relief to be outside; standing upright and stretching his abused muscles, breathing in the fresh morning air. Jensen’s didn’t even mind the rough ground scratching the soles of his bare feet or the cold easterly wind whipping through his nightclothes and pebbling his skin.

While the archduke barked orders at his driver to hide the carriage and horses behind a nearby copse of fir trees, Jensen looked around trying to find a familiar landmark, something to give him a clue as to where they were; a direction he should run if he succeeded in breaking free. As it turned out, there was little to see. They were some distance from the road and the surrounding land was overgrown and unremarkable. A single ramshackle cottage sat abandoned, unloved and alone. The poor thing was a sad sight; dull blue paint peeled from its weathered front door which hung limply on one hinge. Its stone walls, crumbling and damp, glared miserably out at them, and the roof, missing several slates, dipped into an ominous slump in the center.

Jensen didn’t have time to observe much else. Heyerdahl wrapped the chain around his hand, ensuring that Jensen was on a short leash, and dragged him like a disobedient mongrel towards the morose dwelling. The path was almost invisible, buried below thick thatches of weeds and wild grasses. Nettles stung Jensen’s ankles and sharp pebbles and thorns cut into his feet as the archduke hauled him impatiently towards the front door. It swung back with a screech like a tortured cat, shuddering on its hinge, when Heyerdahl kicked it open.

Jensen gagged at the overpowering stench of decay and mold that assaulted them as soon as they stepped over the threshold. He could taste the dust hanging thick in the air; it coated his gums and clung to the back of his teeth. Heyerdahl, entirely unaffected by the putrid smell and filth, marched onwards without hesitation. He dragged Jensen into the main room - a dim and inhospitable space, empty apart from a three legged wooden chair, several maggot-infested furry corpses, and small mountains of rat feces. Thanks to the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls and loose window frames, it was barely any warmer inside than out. Shivering in his night-clothes, Jensen heartily wished the hearth in the long-disused fireplace was aglow with a welcoming fire.

"Well, isn't this lovely, Prince Jensen, just like home." Heyerdahl commented, gazing around. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable?"

It was the archduke's utterly civilized and conversational tone that incensed Jensen, clearing the mist from his head and pushing him irrevocably past his breaking point."Why don't you go fornicate with a goat, you...you son of a whore!" He snapped back, silently thanking Jared for teaching him how to curse like a stable hand.

The archduke's eyebrows jumped up almost comically, and then he threw his head back and laughed. And then, in quick order, he dropped Jensen's leash and backhanded him across the face, sending him staggering backwards and fighting to remain on his feet. "I thought you were a royal prince, boy, not a filthy peasant. It seems I will have to teach you some manners."

"What do you know about manners?" Jensen scoffed, ignoring the heat searing his cheek.

"I know that disrespectful subs with an attitude problem are unlikely to survive for long."

"I am not your sub," Jensen ground out, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Yes, boy, you are. And I wager that by the time we leave this hovel, you'll be broken and begging, kneeling at my feet like an animal and calling me master."

"Never," Jensen spat, jutting his chin upwards defiantly, his eyes flaring wild and determined.

"Oh, my darling boy," the archduke grinned, a shark-like predatory grin that promised blood and suffering. "This is going to be such fun."

 

**********

 

The chaotic scene Jeff encountered when he reached the bay of Lunan, stopped him abruptly in his tracks. To his great relief, the first thing that he noted was Heyerdahl’s tall ship, darkly imposing even from a distance, still anchored in the bay, out where the waters were deep enough for the heavy vessel to safely moor. What was entirely unexpected, and puzzling to say the least, was the number of people milling around the beach. There were dozens of them, more, maybe close to sixty or seventy people and Jeff really had no idea why they were there.

He slid from his saddle and walked his horse towards the closest figure; a man dressed in the sturdy work clothes of a farmer and carrying, suitably, a pitchfork. “Sir! What’s going on here?”

“Who’s asking?” The man asked, eyes slanting in suspicion and the sharp prongs of his pitchfork angling towards Jeff.

“I’m Sir Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Knight of the Realm, and Protector of the Prince.” Jeff said, stating his rarely used formal title, whilst drawing himself up to his full height. He felt Kane appearing at his shoulder, muscles coiled and ready for confrontation.

“Protector of the prince, eh?” The man said, looking anything but impressed. He did, however, relax his grip on the pitch-fork and dip it down towards the ground. “It seems to me like you ain’t doing such a grand job of that. Not if some nutter managed to snatch him from under your nose.”

As much as he didn’t appreciate the rebuke, Jeff couldn’t dispute the fact. He was puzzled, however, at how the man had already heard of the prince’s abduction. Gossip and scandal travelled quickly, but surely not quicker than Jeff’s horse.

“How do you know about the prince’s abduction, and what exactly is going on here?” Jeff asked again.

“Him there told us all about it,” the man nodded towards a foreign soldier, dressed in a rich midnight blue tunic, who seemed to be attempting to organize the assembled crowd. “Said that the king had sent word that Prince Jensen was in trouble. Told us he needed help.”

His answer did not clear Jeff’s confusion any. “ _How_ did the king send word? Who is that?”

The man shrugged, “Said he was Lord Collins’ man. Him and the rest of them in those flash get-ups. They rode round the villages and farms nearby and asked us all to come down to the beach. Even the women and the oldest kiddies, they said. The more the better. Said just being here could save the prince’s life.”

Jeff looked up again and scanned the beach. There were indeed several children mixed in with the rest of the gathered crowd. None looked younger than ten, possibly eleven, years of age, but certainly not old enough to stand against trained soldiers.

“Of course,” the man continued, “We wouldn’t say no. We’d do anything we could to save the young prince. As far as how the king sent word – well, I don’t rightly know. Maybe you should go and ask that fellow over there. He speaks a bit weird, but if you squint your ears a bit, you should understand most of what he says. “

Kane was already striding towards the foreign soldier before the farmer had finished speaking.

“Thank you for your help,” Jeff nodded at the man, before following in Chris’s path.

“Sir Morgan?” To his surprise the soldier in charge greeted him first, hand stretched out in greeting. “Lord Collins told me to expect you.”

“How?” Jeff asked, flummoxed by the entire situation, and completely forgetting his manners and etiquette, and also for the minute his haste. “How in God’s name did you speak to Lord Collins?”

The foreigner dropped his hand awkwardly, head cocked to the side as though Jeff was the puzzle. “You know not of his gift?”

“His gift? No, I have heard of no such thing.” Jeff was apparently lacking some pertinent information about Lord Collins of the Isle of Skye. He had heard rumors of the mysterious land’s beautiful people and unusual marriages. Of its magical creatures and strange customs. It was a distant land though, rarely visited by anyone from the kingdom, and Jeff had always presumed that the tales told were highly romanticized and exaggerated. “What gift do you speak of?”

“He has the power of mindspeech,” the soldier explained, his accented words flowing in a strangely rhythmic brogue. “It’s a divine gift from his forbearers. His power is not as strong as that of his màthair unfortunately; alas there are few people he can connect with. I, thank the great Lords, am one of them.”

“Well...I...” Jeff stuttered, momentarily at a loss for words as his brain struggled to catch up with what he was hearing. Mindspeech – was that possible? If so, it was certainly a useful trait to inherit from your family. Certainly more impressive than the dubious ability to balance a spoon on the end of your nose which was the only gift passed down to Jeff from his father.

Thankfully the other man continued his tale, kindly ignoring Jeff’s stupefaction. “Lord Collins conveyed to me the urgent need to prevent that barbarian Heyerdahl from reaching his ship. Luckily our camp is based nearby and we were able to quickly spread word that Prince Jensen was in dire straits. Everyone we spoke with were quick to volunteer their help. The folks of Richmond truly do love Prince Jensen. We disabled the rowboats waiting to ferry Heyerdahl and his men to the ship, and have been guarding the bay and the nearby coastline.”

Jeff nodded thoughtfully, that was a brilliant idea. Collins was apparently a useful man to count as an ally. “And the archduke, have you spotted him?”

“No, we haven’t set eyes on the devil himself, but we have captured two of his associates.”

Jeff’s hand jumped to his sword’s hilt. At his side, Kane mirrored his movement. “They are alive? Talking?”

“Alive? Aye, they are for now. Although I doubt they’ll remain so for much longer if your countrymen have their way.”

“Do they know where the archduke is? Where Prince Jensen is?”

“They haven’t been all that chatty, but I think with a wee bit of persuasion their tongues might be loosened.”

“Take us to them,” Kane growled, before Jeff could.

“Please,” Jeff added, quickly, not wanting to offend the man after everything he and Lord Collins had done to aid them. “My captain here is an expert in matters of _persuasion_.”

And if Kane somehow failed in getting the vermin to talk, Jeff would be more than happy to step in. He didn’t usually condone the torture of enemy prisoners, firmly believing it rarely secured reliable information. In this case however, he was prepared to make an exception. If it saved Jensen, he was prepared to personally peel the skin from the bones of each and every one of Heyerdahl’s men.

 

**********

 

Jensen had changed his mind. He was very glad that there were no roaring flames in the hearth of the old fireplace. Now that the archduke had strung him out in front of it, he was thankful for any small mercy. A fire not roasting his ass was indeed a small mercy.

Jensen watched warily as the archduke rummaged in his bag once more. He apparently carried everything he needed in the damned thing for binding and torturing unfortunate subs. So far, he'd produced coils of rope, chain and metal hooks, which he'd used to secure Jensen against the half-rotten wooden mantle of the fireplace. His arms were stretched out wide, his legs bound together at the ankles, almost as though he was being crucified. The change of positioning had been a welcome blessing at first, easing the cramps pulsating through his shoulders. Now however, he just felt unbearably vulnerable.

Initially Jensen fought and struggled against his bonds, cursing the archduke and swearing his defiance. All he'd succeeded in doing was tiring himself out and amusing the archduke. Now he concentrated on keeping his breathing even and his expression neutral. If Heyerdahl took pleasure in watching him panic, thrashing around like a fly tangled in a web, Jensen was going to stay calm and quiet for as long as he possibly could.

One positive thing was that Jensen's head was much clearer now than it had been ever since he'd awoken in the archduke's carriage. Whether it was the frigid air, or the turgid smell assaulting his senses, or whether Heyerdahl was no longer trying to affect his mind, he wasn't sure, but it was a relief to be entirely in control of his own thoughts once more.

"So," the archduke smiled in satisfaction as he found what he'd been searching for in his bag - a knife, silver, sharp and lethal. The archduke spun the handle - intricate and expensive bone Ivory - in his fingers, admiring the blade as it glinted in the weak rays of light squeezing through the dirt-streaked window. "I don't think we have much time before my men return, but I did promise to make you beg, didn't I, Prince Jensen? Or should that be, Sub Jensen?"

Jensen did not even blink in acknowledgment of the archduke's words.

"No? Not Sub Jensen? You don’t like the name? No, you're right; I can come up with something better than that. You are mine now after all. Your pretty face, your firm young body, your beating heart and yes, even your name; I own them all." Heyerdahl stepped across the room, picking his path languidly as though he was waltzing, the knife held tenderly in his hand like a lover. "Now, what should I name you? Hmm…Pig? No, I already possess a piggy. She's not as pretty you, but she does have juicy rump and hmmm...she squeals deliciously when I slice into her. Slut? Whore? Hmm, I don't know, they just don't have the right ring, do they? Maybe you could be my puppy, or…no, with those big green eyes you’d be a much better kitty.”

Jensen ignored the archduke's ramblings; instead he stared blankly ahead, focusing on the wall straight in front of him. In his head he drew pictures, imagined how cozy this room might once have been, before time and neglect had taken their toll. He wondered if young children had once played here with wooden blocks and straw dolls, or if they'd had bedtime stories read to them in front of the fireplace. He let his thoughts drift far away, allowed them to escape the way his body could not.

"Maybe I just won't give you a name." The archduke was at his side now, his breath hot and rancid against Jensen's cheek. Jensen could feel the pointed tip of a blade snaking over his stomach, the touch deceptively light, like the caress of a feather, not even snagging the silk of his nightshirt. “You’ll just be a thing, an object, an inanimate unthinking possession. Nameless and powerless. Would you like that? No? Perhaps if you bow your head and call me master now, I will allow you to keep your name. Hmm, pretty boy, you could be my Jenny if you’re good."

'Do not speak', Jensen told himself, blocking out the archduke's melodramatics. 'Do not move, not a single muscle. Do not snap at the bait, do not react. He’s toying with you, like a cat playing with a mouse. You are strong, a fighter. Do not give in.’ The words were Jeff's somehow; Jeff’s training, Jeff's orders. Jeff still keeping him safe.

When the knife sliced the first button from his shirt, Jensen flinched, jerked backwards, a knee-jerk reaction for which he silently berated himself. By the time the last button fell to the floor, he had recovered his composure.

Heyerdahl grabbed Jensen’s face, clamping his claw-like nails around Jensen’s jaw and forcing their eyes to meet. “Call me master, Sub”.

Jensen stared contemptuously back and remained silent.

"You really think you can deny me your submission?" Heyerdahl hissed, ripping Jensen's shirt apart, leaving it shredded and hanging from his shoulders, exposing his torso. "You think you can resist my dominion?

The archduke trailed the knife upwards, until it was pressed against Jensen's chest, resting over his heart. A shallow cut, little more than a scratch blossomed across his skin. But even though his eyes stung and dread was creeping through his bones like a sickness, Jensen refused to answer him. He refused to even blink, determined not to show the slightest hint of fear.

"I am your master; I own you, physically, mentally and spiritually. _Prince Jensen_ ," the archduke spat the title as though it were an insult, "Son of the great Ackles, King of Richmond, exists no more. You are no more human, have no more rights, than this broken chair."

Jensen blinked once; slow and measured. Boredom the only emotion he allowed to bleed into his eyes.

"You think you can simply ignore me, you insolent slut?" The pressure of the knife eased from his chest, just long enough for Heyerdahl to turn and kick the limping chair across the room, shattering it into little more than firewood. He twisted back to face Jensen, his eyes, slate grey and stone cold. "You will either kneel at my feet, or lie there in broken pieces. But you will obey my every word. You will call me Master."

The archduke's eyes narrowed as Jensen continued his impassive disregard for every single word thrown at him.

The slap across his face was a shock; the second and third were not. Jensen's ears rang with the force of the blows, but after each one he lifted his chin and stared defiantly in the archduke's face. The archduke was unamused.

"Enough foreplay," he growled when the realization dawned that Jensen wasn't going to react to threats and slaps. "It's time we began. You know the first thing I do to a new toy is to write my name on it. Usually I would sear my name into your chest. I'd heat the branding iron until it glowed amber, then hold it against you, right here, until your skin melted, until the smell of burning flesh made my mouth water, until you screamed yourself hoarse. Now though, I'll have to improvise."

The collar around his neck grew tight as Jensen swallowed the thick feeling of dread crawling up from his guts. Despite the temperature in the room, a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.

Heyerdahl quirked his head to side, and smiled. Tipped the edge of his blade against Jensen's stomach, and pressed. Drew a steady line straight down, and grinned.

Jensen choked back his scream. Screwed his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip until the coppery taste of blood seeped into his mouth. Then the knife cut into him again, another slash down his abdomen.Then another line carved across. Pain, white hot and intense, washed over him in waves, each one stronger than the last.

Jensen didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until the knife finally dropped away. His eyes blinking open as the pain dulled to a relentless throb. The archduke's face, inches from his own, was contorted in a grotesque leer. Jensen's pain excited him; his arousal clear in the dark shine of his eyes.

"Everyone will know now that you are mine. They'll see my mark, my initial, carved into your flesh, and they'll know."

Jensen spat, wet and bubbling with blood, straight in the archduke's face. The spittle hitting the sharp line of his cheek and catching in his beard.

"You are a feral little thing, aren't you?" Heyerdahl said, wiping the back of his hand across his face. "That's okay, I have ways of taming animals."

One swipe of the knife and the archduke cut Jensen's sleep pants loose. They slipped easily down his thighs, thanks to the bow of his legs, and pooled around his bound ankles leaving him stripped entirely bare.

"Such a pretty cock you have," the archduke grinned, wrapping his fingers around it. "Not very big though is it? But then what use does a sub have for a real man's cock?"

As he spoke the archduke pulled on Jensen's penis trying to illicit a reaction. The pain burning in his guts and the hate, black and ugly, in his heart ensured that he had no success.

"Does the pathetic stub not work?" The archduke frowned, firming his grip and trying to coax the unresponsive organ to life. If anything Jensen's flaccid cock shrunk even more, his balls trying to crawl inside his body. "Is it just as useless as the rest of you?"

Jensen glared but remained silent.

The archduke dropped his hand in disgust. "You continue to disappoint me. But there is more than one way to make you beg."

Heyerdahl pressed his knife into Jensen's groin, just short of hard enough to pierce skin. Then he trailed a winding path up Jensen's body. Over his hips, around the bleeding wounds on his belly, across his chest. Every so often he'd stop and dig in a little deeper, slice or stab, rip and gouge.

The room spun around Jensen. His vision blurred, fading in and out. Sweat and tears clung to his eyelashes. The muscles in his legs trembled so violently that the chains around his wrists were the only thing holding him up. Blood lay thick on his tongue, his own teeth turning his bottom lip into a grisly mess.

"Come on pretty kitty, sing for me," Heyerdahl murmured in his ear, drawing a circle around Jensen's nipple with the tip of the blade. The knife crept up his sternum, up the dip of his throat, over the iron collar and rested below his jaw.

Lifting his chin, Jensen shook his head once sharply in refusal. The collar pinched at his throat and Jensen gulped automatically in response, regretting it immediately when the metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth. He almost threw up when the thick and bloody saliva trickled down the back of his throat, the coppery taste curdling in his gut. Vomiting would have meant opening his mouth though. And Jensen suspected that once he did that, the screams lodged in his chest would escape, and never end.

"So, your tongue is as useless as your cock then? I had thought you would be more fun than this." Heyerdahl grabbed Jensen's testicles in his free hand and squeezed, savagely.

It was almost too much. Jensen jerked in his chains, trying to curl in on himself even though it was impossible. His hands clenched into fists, blood oozing from his palms where his nails ripped through skin. Pain blazed through every nerve in his body, a fever consuming him, like the fires of hell.

Even after the archduke loosened his grip, it took long minutes for the agony to lessen, for the pain to recede enough to allow Jensen to draw breath. Tears streamed down his face, unbidden but unstoppable.

The archduke waited and watched; his knife swaying in the air, a hair’s breadth from Jensen's heart.

"That's better. I think we might be getting somewhere don't you? But still..." the archduke continued, thankfully not expecting an answer this time. "...I did promise to make you beg."

The archduke yanked on Jensen's balls again, sending another wave of pain crashing through him. Jensen sobbed. It was too much. He felt as though he were sinking into his worst nightmare; the darkness dragging him down, swallowing him whole.

"Now, I'm going to give you a choice, because I am such a kind master.” Heyerdahl said, his fingers crushing Jensen’s testicles mercilessly. “I advise you to consider your options carefully. You see, kitty, I have no use for a willful sub that won't perform on command. No, that would set a bad example. So, I'm going to help you. I'm going to ensure you cannot disobey me."

Sweat poured down Jensen's face, joining his tears and the bloody drool escaping from his lips, the disgusting mess dripping steadily on to the ground. His head was in turmoil. He couldn't think straight, could barely understand what the archduke was saying. He was terrifyingly close to giving in. Giving up. The one thing, the golden thread of a lifeline, he had left to cling to was Jeff. The thought of disappointing him, of letting him down, was devastating. He loved Jeff, and even if that love was never returned, he would die rather than submit to another. He would die rather than allow Jeff to see him at the feet of another man.

He almost didn’t notice when his balls were released from their torment; the pain barely waning. One harsh slap, then another, stung his face. The room swayed dizzyingly, a confusing blur, before gradually swimming back into focus. Heyerdahl grabbed Jensen’s chin and held his head steady. "Listen to me, Sub. You refuse to beg, and you refuse to get hard, so now I am going to ensure that one of those things will never be a problem again. And then, kitty, and then, if you still won't obey me, I'll make certain you can't do either ever again."

Jensen hung limply in his bonds and blinked sluggishly back at him, blood loss and pain dulling his wits.

Heyerdahl stroked his knife down Jensen's rib cage, caressing him with the blade. Jensen shuddered when the archduke leaned closer, nuzzled against his jaw, and whispered in his ear. "So tell me, do you want neutered or muted?" The knife slithered down the bloody tatters of Jensen's body until he could feel it, sharp and threatening, pressing against the inside of his thigh. "Do you want me to carve off your balls or your tongue?"

"No!" Jensen gasped, the word uttered more in disbelief than reply.

"Ahhh, it talks," Heyerdahl's face lit up in glee. "Which is to be then? Will I castrate you? Turn you from a man, a poor excuse of one anyway, into a eunuch. A sterile bitch. Or will I muzzle you? You don't want to talk, would you miss your tongue if I cut it from your mouth?"

"Please...I...no!" Jensen begged, couldn't help himself. "You can't...I...please!"

The archduke laughed. "Ah, now, little prince, now you beg. And what dulcet tones. Enchanting. Absolutely enchanting. That sweet sound is almost enough to make me change my mind. Almost." The archduke sighed as though he was actually disappointed. "But what kind of a Dom would that make me?"

"You...you'll kill me." Jensen stuttered, voice as rough and broken as his spirit.

"No, pretty boy, unfortunately for you, I will not. My skills with a blade are unsurpassable and my Magics are many." The archduke lowered his hand and tugged on Jensen's tortured balls again, stretching them away from his body. Scraped the knife across his thigh at the same time.

“No,” Jensen pleaded, his pride and self-control crumbling. “No, Gods! Help, Jeff…please… please.” He bucked and squirmed like a wild thing, as much as his injuries and restraints allowed.

"Hush, silly boy, you don't want the knife to slip, do you? Now either choose, or I'll choose for you."

Heyerdahl clenched his fingers, squeezing Jensen's testicles in his fist. Jensen screamed; a raw and desperate sound that split the air like a whip.

Victory secured, the archduke grinned.

Jensen's eyes widened, his scream caught in his throat and died. Silence, sudden and shocking, settled over the room.

A floorboard creaked.

"Choose!" The archduke demanded.

Jensen grit his teeth together and stared straight past Heyerdahl.

"Fine," the archduke smiled, madness glinting in his eyes. " _I'll_ choose." He lifted the knife to Jensen's face, yanked on his balls, swiped the blade down in an arc, then...

Blood, warm and cloying, sprayed over Jensen; trickled down his face, crawled up his nose, clung to his eyelashes.

Archduke Heyerdahl's head fell to floor, his mouth gaping open in surprise. His body followed, still twitching as it slumped to the ground.

Jensen stared into his Protector’s eyes. And wept.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took slightly longer to post than I planned, but I didn't want to leave you with too nasty of a cliffhanger. The next chapter will have a little more of the comfort and a little less of the hurt, a little less!
> 
> And please note, I have added to the tags!


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